Replica
by TellMeMore90
Summary: What if? - "Brother, what have they done to you?" Familiar red rimmed eyes look up into his. The pain filled response nearly shatters his iron grip on his emotions for the first time since his youth. "He has destroyed me."


_I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew._

_I know very little about plastic surgery, so if I got anything badly wrong, apologies._

_If you're interested I can also be found on archiveofourown and tumblr. If you're not that's fine too :)_

* * *

Mycroft Holmes walks towards his office and apartment in the Diogenes Club. It is late, twenty seven minutes past midnight. His shoes make no sound on the plush carpet. The ferrule of his umbrella makes small round imprints in the deep pile.

He opens the heavy oak door of his office and steps forward into the darkness, reaching for the brass light switch beside the door. His hand gives an imperceptible pause before reaching the switch giving him a moment to close his eyes. His finely honed sense for danger tells him that he is not alone, and that brief moment of blindness as the room moves from darkness to light may be the only advantage he has.

"Don't." A voice commands from the far side of the room.

The unexpected visitor is obviously by the window, his back to the room. The long blast proofing curtains prevent the man from seeing outside, but still his eyes stare out upon the muted lights of London.

There is something in the intonation, the emotion behind the voice that is vaguely familiar, but the timbre is unknown. The feeling of familiarity is enough to stay Mycroft's hand even as he fails to understand why.

"May I turn on my desk light?"

"Of course."

Again, a sense of familiarity and yet not. He can't quite place why, but the voice reminds him of his mother's cousin, Henri. But it is not Henri who has been dead thirteen years. Mycroft's brain is busy analysing, deducing, but the information is scant.

He moves to his mahogany desk and turns on his desk light, seating himself in his leather chair and steepling his fingers upon his chin. He surveys the silhouette by the pale light from the window.

He can see a male figure. Six feet tall. Very thin, but with an inner strength. Hair is cut short. From what little he can see of the man's back, his clothes are cheap tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie. He smells of travel and dirty streets, but his posture is upright, even if his shoulders are slightly rounded as though he is carrying a great burden.

"It is late. I assume that some light refreshment would not be unwelcome."

"Tea. I have missed tea." The voice trembles with exhaustion and barely suppressed emotion. "Please, don't alert your minions to my presence. You are quite safe with me Mycroft. Despite your idiotic actions I could never harm you."

Mycroft is surprised, but long experience has taught him to let nothing show. He orders the tea, informing the staff that he has a late night visitor and they are not to be disturbed. The code relaying that all is well is included in the message, so they will not be disturbed tonight.

"Would you care to sit?" Mycroft surveys his comfortably furnished room, attempting to decide which chair he will sacrifice for the comfort of his dishevelled visitor. The sofa is leather and the easiest to clean. Mycroft raises his hand indicating his choice of seating and hoping that the man will accept his suggestion.

"Perhaps that would be wise. I will also require medical attention, but that can wait until I have spoken with you. "

"Very well."

It is obvious from the stilted way the man moves from the window and eases himself with difficulty onto the sofa that he has injuries hidden under his clothes. Even so, the gait and movement of his companion are familiar to Mycroft. The sofa is far enough from the desk light to remain in semi darkness making any further analysis nigh impossible.

A knock on the door heralds the arrival of the tea. Mycroft's visitor moves deeper into shadow as the footman brings in the silver tray, placing it upon Mycroft's desk as indicated. Without looking around the footman gives a small bow before turning and leaving the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Mycroft reaches for the teapot.

"I'll be mother?"

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." whispers the figure from the darkness.

This time Mycroft cannot contain his shock. "Sherlock?"

"Yes brother, but also not Sherlock." There is extreme distress in that voice.

"Your voice is altered." Mycroft has learnt from long experience not to allow emotion into his voice, but his mind is racing, analysing every comment and intonation. He is desperately trying to discern some explanation for Sherlock's cryptic remarks and obvious distress, but nothing is forthcoming. He can only assume some form of significant injury. His mind is already accessing the contact numbers for various doctors and trauma surgeons he knows and trusts.

"Yes. I wish that were not all."

"May I turn on the light? You have been missing for nine months. I feared for many of those months that you were dead, and despite my best efforts I could not locate you. I received your text from the clinic with great relief and dealt with the situation, but you were no longer there. The last intelligence I had showed you in Geneva tracking Colonel Moran." He paused awaiting an explanation. It was long seconds before he received one.

"And that is where I have remained. It would be fair to say that Sherlock Holmes ended in Geneva."

Mycroft is worried. "Brother, let me turn on the light."

"Very well, but know this, Moran succeeded where Moriarty failed. He has destroyed me and any chance of my reclaiming my former life far better than if he had killed me."

"No brother. Your name is cleared and your reputation restored. There is nothing to prevent your return."

Sherlock has moved across the room and now stands before the light switch.

"There is this brother."

Light floods the room and Mycroft blinks as his eyes become accustomed to the illumination. As his vision clears he looks towards his brother. Before him stands James Moriarty.

Instinctively Mycroft's hand flies to his desk, searching for his gun even as his other hand reaches for the alarm.

"Don't. Please don't. I told you, he has destroyed me." And the man collapses into a sobbing heap on the floor.

Again Mycroft pauses, appraising the situation. He has succumbed to an instinctual reaction upon seeing the face of the enemy before him, when he knows that it is all wrong.

Moriarty is dead. His body had been reclaimed from the roof at Bart's, dead from a bullet wound through the face removing most of his skull. His corpse had been thoroughly DNA tested before being disposed of quietly. Mycroft had overseen the procedure personally and had everything fully documented in the unlikely event that questions should ever be asked.

The person now huddled on the floor of his office is not James Moriarty despite the general likeness of his face. His height and build are wrong. His features give a general impression of Moriarty, but more than a cursory inspection reveals significant differences. His voice, whilst higher pitched than Sherlock's is still deeper than Moriarty's and bears the cultured tones of the English public school system. No this is not Moriarty, but someone has attempted to create a visual replica, enough to fool at first glance, but not to withstand close scrutiny.

Mycroft moves forwards and places a hand upon the shoulder of the poor wretch before him. The hair is short, but the same colour as his brother's, and a faint curl is beginning to show. The posture too is that of his brother. Mycroft has witnessed his brother in this state of distress too many times in his life and every instinct confirms that this is indeed Sherlock.

"Brother, what have they done to you?"

Familiar red rimmed eyes look up into his. The pain filled response nearly shatters his iron grip on his emotions for the first time since his youth.

"He has destroyed me."

-0-0-0-

As the exhausted body lays curled in silk pyjamas upon the bed in Mycroft's private apartment, Mycroft takes the opportunity to catalogue his brother's injuries as detailed to him by his private physician. Alongside the cuts and bruises of recent fights there are also the remains of his time in Geneva. The index finger is missing from his right hand. His fingerprints have been surgically removed. His voice has also been surgically altered, and finally, his face has undergone significant remodelling. The work is of the highest quality and could not have been cheap. No doubt one of Moriarty's network. After all, a criminal network of that size would require the services of at least one expert plastic surgeon.

Anthea is already tracking down plastic surgeons and clinics capable of this quality of work. Heads will roll for this, for what has been done to his baby brother.

-0-0-0-

**Seven months earlier**

"Ahh, gut. You are avake. Herr Büchler vill see you momentarily." The nurse finished changing the intravenous drip and left the room.

Sherlock squinted as he looked around the room, his eyes feeling crusty from lack of use and struggling with the brightness. His brain felt foggy and slow. So he had been kept drugged.

That he was in a hospital was obvious, but the lack of sounds from other rooms implied a private floor, with few, if any other patients anywhere near. There was certainly none of the usual sounds of passing nurses or the white noise normally heard in busy buildings. It was difficult to even discern any street sounds, although there was the distant sound of vehicles, and the closer sound of bird song.

He could feel that his face was heavily bandaged, and his hands too. What the hell had happened? The last thing he remembered was hailing a taxi outside the airport, giving the address of the office building on the Rue du Rhône. His mind had been focussed on Sebastian Moran. The final link in Moriarty's network and John's sniper. The key to his return home.

Ansermier International was reputedly one of the few remaining fragments of Moriarty's network that was still operating, specialising in smuggling, anything from diamonds to drugs to people. The head office of their import/export business was in the office block he was speeding towards, and the most direct connection to Moran. Sherlock remembered briefly relaxing his head on the rest on the back seat of the taxi as he entered his mind palace. Then nothing.

"So our patient awakes." The doctor had entered the room. Herr Büchler presumably.

He appeared to approve of the stereotype of the German doctor of fifty years before. A white lab coat and floral print bow tie were partnered with blue and white striped shirt and charcoal grey trousers. What little hair remained on his head was a pale auburn and brushed back severely from his face. He wore round, gold rimmed spectacles upon his chubby face. A short florid man, mid-forties, from Hamburg. Married twice, financial worries. First wife no doubt replaced by a younger trophy wife. Both women demanding financially, and his second wife was definitely not interested sexually. The man was a walking advert for a stress related heart attack.

"Tell me, what do you remember?"

"A taxi ride from the airport." His throat felt sore and his voice was hoarse. The nurse brought a cup of water, carefully positioning a straw between his lips.

"And your name?"

"Arthur Dent." At least, that was the name in the passport he was carrying at the time.

"Gut, gut. Well Herr Dent, do not worry. You are receiving the best of care. You were involved in a gas explosion at a warehouse just outside the city. Unfortunately your face and hands were badly burned, but we have carried out extensive reconstructive surgery and all will be well. You will, of course, find some alterations to you appearance, but I am sure that, given the situation, you will be happy with what we have done."

"Explosion? I don't understand. Why was there an explosion?"

"I do not know? You were brought here by ambulance and have been here ever since."

"How long?"

"Nine weeks."

"Nine weeks? And how much longer before I can have the dressings removed?"

"At least as long again. Your injuries were extensive and you have had to undergo many hours of reconstructive surgery. You will have to be patient and get your strength back. Do not worry. You are quite safe. The nurses are available to deal with your day to day needs, simply press the button if you require anything."

"Where is my luggage? My phone?"

"I am afraid, Herr Dent that everything you possessed was destroyed in the explosion. You arrived in nothing but burnt rags. There was no phone and nothing to identify you. We did not even know your nationality until you began to regain consciousness."

"I need a phone, or access to the internet. My email at least."

Herr Büchler became tense. He was looking for a way to deny the request without appearing to be disobliging.

"Ahh, I would Herr Dent, but with the, ahem, extensive injuries to your hands I fear that using any kind of keyboard is out of the question until you are fully healed." So, he'd found his excuse. The look of relief on the man's face was evident. "If you would like us to contact someone for you, simply give the nurse the details and they will make the call for you. You need to rest your voice. You had extensive injuries to your throat and larynx and too much talking could affect your ability to speak permanently."

So keep quiet and don't communicate with the outside world. No offer to contact friends of family until the request for a phone was made. Extensive plastic surgery. And no memory of an explosion.

After the doctor had left his room, Sherlock took the opportunity to survey the damage to his body. His head, throat and hands were fully bandaged, but his right hand felt wrong. He tried to wiggle his fingers in his bandages, but try as he might his right index finger was not co-operating. Other than that there were no other dressings on his body. If he had been involved in an explosion and his clothes reduced to rags, surely other parts of his body would have been injured. Conclusion: there was no explosion and he had been abducted. Drugged and held prisoner for at least the last nine weeks whilst undergoing extensive plastic surgery. But to what end?

Next he surveyed his room. He could hear that the building was in the city, but the pace of traffic indicated a quiet suburb. He had to assume he was still in Geneva for want of any information to the contrary. His room was large, at least fifteen metres long and ten metres wide, but with no decoration except stark white paint. The floor was covered in bland grey lino. To his left, the door to the corridor that the doctor had departed through. Opposite his bed, a wall mounted television screen, currently switched off, the remote beside his bed. Next to that a door, presumably to a bathroom. In the wall to his right were French windows with full length black-out curtains. Through the window it was obvious the doors lead to a garden, so his room was on the ground floor. If he was being kept prisoner he could only assume that the garden was securely enclosed, otherwise keeping him on the ground floor was a foolish security risk.

His bed was exceedingly luxuriant for a hospital room with high quality cotton bed clothes. Beside it, a bedside storage unit, wheeled table currently over the foot of his bed, and the television, there was no other furniture in the room barring a cupboard against the wall to his right. Later examination revealed the shelves contained classic works of German, French, Italian and English literature. Those books were to prove his salvation against the tedium of his incarceration.

As Sherlock became stronger and increasingly mobile over the next few weeks he discovered that he indeed had an en-suite bathroom, and that the garden was secure. Access was only through the house and it was surrounded by two metre high walls topped with broken glass. No tree, trellis or creeper gave any possibility of scaling the walls. All doors accessing the house other than his own French windows were kept securely locked. The staff were careful to ensure that nothing was left in his room that could be used to pick the locks.

The nursing staff were predominantly of German origin. They were curt and efficient, rarely lingering to talk to him. They made every effort to make his convalescence comfortable, and gave every appearance of his not being detained, but Sherlock was in no doubt that he was a prisoner.

For the next two months Sherlock played his part. Not talking and being generally helpful to the nurses who came to tend to him. Every time they changed his dressings he was heavily sedated. Herr Büchler explained that this was to prevent the shock and pain from exciting the patient and causing further injuries. That he generally found it easier for all parties if his trauma patients were unconscious throughout the procedure. Sherlock pondered what it was about his condition the good doctor was trying to prevent him from discovering.

The waiting was tedious in the extreme. His only news and entertainment, apart from the books, was the television attached to the wall on the other side of the room. It provided a constant stream of Swiss light entertainment. Sherlock could feel his brain putrefying as he lay, awaiting the day his bandages were removed.

From the positioning of the supposed injuries Sherlock had deduced that they were changing his identity. All the things that could quickly confirm his true identity. His face and voice had been altered. No doubt his fingerprints had also been modified or erased. The only things they could not change were his eyes and his DNA. Even corneal implants would not change his iris patterns, and the lack of dressing on his eyes implied they had not been tampered with. Similarly, even a bone marrow transplant could not change his DNA, add to it, yes, but not replace his own DNA markers. And again, there was no evidence of any transplant surgery. So voice, face and fingerprints.

He had always told John that his body was just transport, unimportant to the Work or his self-image. Only now did he realise just how wrong he had been.

His hands were the first to be unwrapped. This time there was no sedative. The nurse gently removed the dressings from his left hand. The skin looked no different than the last time he had seen the back of his hand. The tiny scars and acid burns from his experiments still littered the skin, looking like so many freckles. He flexed his fingers and turned his hand over to survey the damage. He ran his thumb over his fingertips. They were smooth. No callouses and indentations from his years of playing the violin. And no finger prints. He filed the information away, but showed no obvious signs of confusion or distress.

His right hand was proceeding more carefully. Both the nurse and the doctor were anxious.

"I should warn you, Herr Dent, that this hand was badly injured in the explosion. We did what we could, but were unable to save your index finger. I am sorry. You will no doubt have difficulty writing."

This time Sherlock was genuinely shocked. If the explosion was, as he suspected, faked, why had they removed his index finger. Ahh, writing. It was not enough to remove his finger prints but also his handwriting and signature. Another quick method of proving his identity removed.

The phrase 'shoot first, ask questions later' began dancing around his brain.

Unsurprisingly, the good doctor made elaborate excuses for why Sherlock could not have access to a laptop or phone. He began with no wifi and no telephone point in the room. Then, that a patient with life threatening injuries was in the next room and the proximity of a mobile phone could interfere with his equipment. Again, he left with assurances that, if Sherlock provided contact details, his staff would communicate with anyone he wanted. Of course, Sherlock did nothing of the sort.

The following week, one of the younger nurses, Nicole, entered the room busily texting her boyfriend. She had done this many times over the last month and had obviously not been briefed on the cover story of the critically ill patient next door. She was a useful source of information about the gossip and workings of the clinic and had even chatted with Sherlock about her boyfriend and social life. It was clear that this was a private plastic surgery practice dealing with many wealthy and influential clients. However she had become aware of some patients who she described as 'wrong', and some of the staff members were 'different'. Despite gentle questioning, Sherlock could get little additional information beyond her own gut reaction to these people.

There was one man she identified as 'the Boss' who terrified her. She described him as tall and blond with a military bearing and an air of menace. He often accompanied and visited with some of the 'wrong' patients, and Herr Büchler appeared to be overly deferential to him. Nicole said 'the Boss' often spoke to the staff members she steered clear of. There were some rooms within the clinic that the regular staff were not allowed to enter. In fact once of the nurses that joined with her had accidently entered one of these rooms, and had failed to return to work after she finished her shift. Herr Büchler had informed them that she had been summoned back to Stuttgart for a family emergency and was unlikely to return to Geneva.

Nicole pushed her mobile into her pocket and began to check the dressings on Sherlock's face. A quick wince and an "ow" caused one of Sherlock's pillows to fall to the floor. As the nurse moved to recover the fallen item, Sherlock lifted her smartphone from her pocket.

He smiled sweetly as she left the room, wishing her fun on her date that evening, then curled onto his side to hide his actions. Unfortunately there was little battery left, but sufficient for him to access the web and confirm his suspicions. There were no reports of any explosions in the Geneva area for a month either side of the date Sherlock had arrived. Quickly he deleted the browser history, even as the battery died. Rising from the bed, he wiped his prints from the phone and dropped it under his bed for the nurse to discover later. Then he walked to the private garden that adjoined his room – the only place he was allowed to walk unsupervised. He needed to think.

He wished he'd had sufficient battery to contact Mycroft. He missed his brother. He missed London and more than anything he missed John. He wanted to return to his life, but he increasingly believed that what had been done to him would render that dream impossible.

Which now begged the question, who's face did he have?

Another seventeen days, and the bandages on his face were due to finally be removed. Herr Büchler and several staff entered the room. A nurse began to cut the bandages. A male nurse edged forwards keeping in the periphery of his vision. Herr Büchler twitched nervously. He kept casting frantic glances at his staff. Distracted as he was, Sherlock still detected that it was not his face that was causing the doctor's disquiet, it was the male nurse now poised at his shoulder.

Finally the bandages were cut. Sherlock abruptly brought his hands to his face. The nurse dropped the scissors to clasp his hands and move them gently back to his lap. "Nein, nein Herr Dent. Berühren Sie ihr Gesicht nicht. Haben Sie Geduld."

Sherlock gently acquiesced, surreptitiously slipping the forgotten scissors under his bed clothes and out of sight.

The bandages were finally removed and Herr Büchler stepped forward with a mirror. "Your face Herr Dent."

Sherlock took the mirror and brought it to his face. Despite his deductions and mental preparations, nothing could prepare him for the shock of the face staring back at him.

"Moriarty!"

The blond male nurse at his side sharply grabbed his shoulder, sinking fingers painfully into flesh. "Oh yes Sherlock Holmes. He promised to burn the heart out of you and now I have done that. Even if your friends are protected know I will get to them. They will be dead before you return to London. And even when you do return, your brother has done a particularly efficient job of proving James was real. With that face it is highly unlikely you will make it through passport control let alone to London. Again, you can thank your brother. And I prepared this gift for you. Perhaps I should introduce myself. Colonel Sebastian Moran at your service."

The scream tore from his throat as the man beside him enjoyed the anguish he had caused. "MORAN!"

Moran leant forward to better enjoy the view of his doctor's handy work. The scissors slicing through his jugular vein and carotid artery changed the glee to shock and then glassy stillness as the man's blood sprayed from his throat and soaked into the bed sheets.

Sherlock flung himself from the bed and grabbed the doctor by his lapels.

"Undo this you bastard! Give me back my face!"

"I … I can't. The changes were too extensive. We have shaved bone and removed cartilage. Anything more than the most minimal of changes could cause catastrophic failure. I am afraid Herr Dent … Herr Holmes that this is your face now. I am so sorry. Mein Gott, what have I done?"

"Run." The voice was so quiet that at first the doctor thought he had imagined it.

"I said RUN!"

-0-0-0-

The clinic was empty. Herr Büchler and his staff had fled in terror, unwilling to be implicated in the death of Colonel Moran and the illegal identity changing service any investigation of the clinic would reveal.

Moran's clothes, wallet and belongings were in the staff locker room where he had obviously changed into the scrubs he'd died in. They were of similar height so Sherlock felt no guilt in liberating them to facilitate his escape. Their use became superfluous when a further search revealed his own possessions including his passport and long flat mobile were secreted in a cupboard in Herr Büchler's office. His passport was rendered useless by the horror perpetrated upon him, but Sherlock now had access to sufficient funds to secure forged identification. He put his phone on to charge and entered the doctor's private bathroom to remove the remains of Moran's blood.

As Sherlock showered and dressed he planned how he would get back to some semblance of a life. A text to Mycroft would ensure this mess was cleaned up discretely and that those he cared for were still protected.

From the information gathered from Nicole, and the patient files stored in Herr Büchler's hastily abandoned office, Sherlock had identified several targets that needed to be dealt with urgently. The rest he would leave for Mycroft's team to deal with.

Home was no longer an option. And John … no, he could never do this to John.

The pain in his chest felt like burning.

-0-0-0-

The nurse stepped forward and began to cut the dressings from his face, as the doctor stood behind, nervous, awaiting the results of his work.

A man stood beside his shoulder in the periphery of his vision, the tensions in him almost tangible.

This time, Sherlock felt genuine fear.

As the dressings were removed the doctor heaved a sigh of relief and handed the mirror to his patient.

Sherlock looked into the mirror and scrutinised the face before him. It was not his, but more importantly it was not Moriarty. The face looking back at him was new, but all his own.

"Thank you Mr Wilson. Your work is exemplary."

Mycroft stepped forward from his position at Sherlock's shoulder and surveyed his brother's new face. He gave a small smile of approval and turned to shake the plastic surgeon's hand.

"You and your team are to be commended. Thank you."

Turning to the occupant of the bed Mycroft placed his hands upon the crook handle of his furled umbrella. "Come brother, get dressed. The car is waiting."

-0-0-0-

Back at the Diogenes Club, Sherlock sat in the arm chair opposite his brother who was himself ensconced behind his desk. Both men held cups of tea. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, his curls now fully re-established.

"How are you acclimating to this new body?"

"If you mean have I compensated, yes. As you know, I trained myself to be ambidextrous some years ago, so writing has not been a problem, but I have had difficulty adjusting to bowing with one less finger. It is not so much the act itself as the muscle memory. I forget that my index finger is no longer there and loosen my grip. It will merely take practise to train my brain to accept I now only have three fingers on my right hand."

"And the rest?"

"It is difficult. I do not recognise my voice, and I am sometimes surprised when I see my reflection. I have always told John my body was merely transport. I failed to appreciate just how much of my self-image was tied up in that face, that voice. I feel that I am no longer Sherlock Holmes even though my mind is still as it ever was."

"And what of the Work? What of Baker Street? What of John? Will Sherlock Holmes come back or should I prepare a new identity for you?"

"I honestly do not know. These last few months, the Work has begun to call to me, and now that I no longer have the face of that devil, I can perhaps resume the work I love. As to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." Sherlock fell silent as he thought of his best friend. His eyes dropped to the delicate bone china cup and saucer held gently in his hands, as though seeking inspiration for how his life should now proceed. He could not picture his life without John at his side, but that picture bore his old face. "Perhaps it would be for the best for all if Sherlock Holmes remains dead and buried."

There was a knock at the door and muffled footsteps as someone entered.

"Hello Mycroft. You summoned me. You could have just called. I probably wouldn't have come, but I thought we'd given up on the kidnapping."

Sherlock tensed at the sarcastic tone of voice that was so familiar to him. It had been so long. The urge to turn towards his friend was almost unbearable, but he kept his face angled away, unable to bear the pain of looking at his friend one last time.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't realise you had a visitor."

"It's quite alright John. This is … a relation of mine."

John stuck out his hand and approached the stranger. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm John Watson."

Sherlock placed his cup and saucer upon the side table before he stood and turned towards his friend. He clasped the proffered hand. "Hello. Arthur Dent."

"Like Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?" John smiled then his face froze. He felt the knuckle where the finger had been removed, and his fingers ran over an old acid burn on the back of the hand, then he turned the hand and examined the back in more detail. The pattern of nicks, burns and scars held his attention. Next he looked into the man's eyes, never letting his grip slacken.

Sherlock looked back, unable to pull himself from that blue.

Finally John released Sherlock's hand and stepped up close to the man stood submissively before him. He gripped Sherlock's jaw, turning his face from side to side cataloguing each tiny mark. A gentle finger ran up his jaw line and behind each ear feeling the scars of recent surgery. A finger then ran across the silvered scar in his hairline created some six months after their first meeting by an errant bullet from an armed robber. Sherlock could not suppress the shiver that ran through his body at the gentle caress of his blogger.

Suddenly hands had his shirt pulled out and undone. Sherlock made no move to stop him as familiar fingers ran along the scar on his ribs. The result of a mistimed tackle when arresting a rapist whose weapon of choice was a Stanley knife. John had shouted at Sherlock throughout his treatment on the back of the ambulance, throughout the cab journey back to Baker Street and then had continued to berate him for his stupidity as he gently cleaned, stitched and dressed the wound to his own satisfaction.

John stepped back and again looked into the man's eyes. John knew those eyes. The face may lie, but there was no mistake.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

Emotions flashed across John's face. At first confusion, then relief and joy, and finally hurt anger.

"Why aren't you dead?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A creative mind and good luck."

"Explain. And explain this new face. Was the plastic surgery part of it? You weren't planning on coming back were you? Answer me." Sherlock could see the hurt and anger boiling up in his friend. He had to mitigate it now or lose everything.

"The faked suicide was to keep you safe from the snipers Moriarty had on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. It allowed me to dismantle Moriarty's empire and ensure that you were not targeted again. I had always hoped to return to my previous life and _all_ that entails. Unfortunately Sebastian Moran had other ideas. I was abducted and Moran made every effort to erase my identity. He changed my face, my voice and even removed a finger to change my handwriting. Once I escaped three months ago, Mycroft managed to arrange for some further surgery to give me my own identity. I could not come back with the face Moran had given me."

Sherlock looked devastated. That look alone gave John all the information he needed. "Moriarty." The name was barely a breath. His look of pain, and the memories that name invoked in his friend were exactly what Sherlock had sought to avoid.

"Yes. With that face I could not return to … my life. Sherlock Holmes ceased to exist."

"But now? You are coming back?"

"John, I honestly don't know if I can. I miss so much of my old life, but with this change to my … transport, I don't know if I can do it."

John looked devastated. Then his shoulders went back and Captain Watson stepped forward.

"You _will_ come back. You _will_ return to Baker Street. You _will_ resume the Work. You _will_ explain everything to me, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade and you _are_ Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked at the determination in his friends face. He looked into his friend's eyes and then came to a decision. His eyes flicked to Mycroft who had silently observed the whole exchange. A twitch of Mycroft's lips and blink of his eyes confirmed his approval. "Very well John."

John moved towards his former flatmate and best friend. His face broke into a broad smile as, without a moments hesitation he threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and gave him a tight hug. It took but a heartbeat for Sherlock to overcome his fears and return the sentiment in kind.

Mycroft stood from behind his desk and made his way over to his brother. "Sherlock, Anthea has all your identification, a mobile and the key to Baker Street. All you have to do is sign the paperwork she has prepared for you and you will be resurrected, with bank accounts, passport and all credentials. I suggest that you speak to Mrs Hudson and the Detective Inspector with all haste. Now, if you will excuse me, I have an urgent matter to deal with." Then Mycroft ushered the two men towards the door.

Some hour later with all documents signed and completed, John and Sherlock walked out into the corridor of the Diogenes Club.

They turned towards each other and savoured the moment.

"Hungry?"

John smiled "Starving. Angelo's?"

"Why not? Let's invite Mrs Hudson and Lestrade there tonight. Breaking the news in a public place might take the sting out of it. After all, with this new face I can't afford for anyone to punch me quite yet."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll call them now if you want to book a table at Angelo's"

"Oh. And we need to make a stop at the morgue. I need to talk to Molly. Without her I would never have survived the fall. She deserves to know. I'll invite her too, and between the two of us we can explain everything."

Sensing the flash of pain in his companion, Sherlock suddenly stopped and, grasping his shoulders, turned his best friend to face him. "John, know that if it was at all possible I would have confided in you. If it would not have put Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and especially you in mortal danger, I would have told you everything. And don't ever think that I couldn't trust you. I trust you implicitly. I always have. I just couldn't bear that your life was in danger because of me. I needed you alive John to complete what I had to do. I need you alive. A world that does not contain John Hamish Watson is not a world worth living in. Never, ever doubt that."

John's eyes shone. His face broke into a broad smile and his hand reached up and squeezed his friends forearm.

"I suppose you'll be moving back to Baker Street."

"Well Mycroft has been paying the rent."

"You'll be needing a flatmate then."

Sherlock smiled as he held the door open for his friend.

"I will. And a blogger, and doctor, and colleague … and friend."

"Got anyone in mind?"

"Well, there's this retired army doctor I know … "

* * *

"Nein, nein Herr Dent. Berühren Sie ihr Gesicht nicht. Haben Sie Geduld." - No, no Mr Dent. Do not touch your face. Have patience. (with thanks to google translate and a German speaking guest reviewer)

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_I hope you liked. Reviews appreciated._


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